The Island of Music
by trallgorda
Summary: The Opera Garnier is located on a haunted island in the middle of Paris...The Ghost is lonely.
1. Chapter 1

An Island of Music

It's "Phantom of the Opera" in a different setting, where the Opera Garnier is located on its own island and haunted by a ghost!

Chapter 1

_January 15, 1875_

What made me buy a blank book and begin writing my life's story? I have no idea. I have forsaken the world above and the beings who live there, and I very much doubt that anyone shall ever read this, but perhaps reflection shall help me to work. There are times when my mind is so full that I _cannot_ think, and it is only when I put my thoughts down on paper that I begin to feel better and not so frenzied. Right now, my mind is so cluttered with plans and memories and projects that for a moment I was paralyzed at my work table. I could not begin any of the projects I had outlined to celebrate this day, and when my eyes fell on this book I had purchased some months ago, I compulsively took it, turned to the first page, wrote in the date, and began writing. Amazing.

Who am I? My name is Erik. Erik. My father was a stone-mason who died before my birth, and my mother was a woman who was too afraid of me and disgusted by me to love me. Perhaps if I had been handsome, it would have been different, but there is no use to wish for what is impossible. I left home when I was quite young, and I traveled about with the gypsies or _Roma_ (as is their proper name) for a while, until I was in my teens. I spent some time in Italy, working with a master stone-mason and learning his craft. After that, I traveled: All of Europe, India, other parts of Asia, and of course, Persia. After leaving Persia, I returned to Europe, and eventually, I returned to France. By that time, my mother had died and left me all she owned, and I came to Paris to work on the Garnier Opera. Monsieur Garnier was happy to let me join the project, since he knew my work from when I was a child and designed buildings for fun. After a few difficulties, not the least of which were a war with Prussia and the Communards, work was finished, and today is the day that the Opera has at last been opened.

I do not wish to join the party. There is no reason for me to. The Empress Eugenie would faint at the sight of me, I am certain, so I will remain here. Instead, I will talk about the Opera.

There are two islands that are inhabited in Paris, the Ile de la Cite, and the Ile de St. Louis. The third island was created when that fool of a baron, Hausmann, decided the city would be so much more aesthetically pleasing if the Opera was surrounded by a moat. The moat was built, but the difficulties it caused in building the foundations of the Opera were almost catastrophic. The foundations kept sinking, so I suggested to Garnier that we build levees, such as there are in the city of Nouvelle-Orleans in America, to keep the water back until the foundations were firm in the earth. We ran into another difficulty when it became apparent that an underground branch of the Seine ran under the ground we had to build on. Pumps worked for eight months to drain it, and only then were we able to make the foundations. While that work was going on, I built my house down here in the roots of the building.

I have made my plans carefully. Once the management of the Opera are firmly ensconced, I will help them to think that the place is haunted by one of the Communard prisoners that had been left here to rot by the Communards. I shall demand a salary and a private box. Architecture is a good love, but music is my great love. It is a love I must enjoy alone, but it is a love that shall sustain me. I have already begun work on my masterpiece, _Don Juan Triumphant._

I live here in the bowels of an artificial island, an outcast from men. I shall remain here, and I shall never be bothered again.


	2. Chapter 2

_January 5, 1889_

I do not know what to write. I found this, on my dressing-table, with a red rose. Inside of it, on the flyleaf, are the words, "To Christine. From A Friend."

Who would do this? And why? And _how_? I left the door locked, I am certain I did, when I went to rehearsals this morning, and it was still locked when I returned, so _how_ did they get in to leave this diary?

I'd always thought that keeping a diary was a silly thing to do—after all, who would want to read about the tiny little boring details of a stranger's life?—but, I find it very comforting to get all of my thoughts down on paper.

That dedication—it's like one of those anonymous letters in detective stories, isn't it? But why wouldn't this person like me to know he or she left this here for me? Who is it?

I shall probably never sleep again, because I will lay in bed every night, wondering who left this book for me.

It is rather late now, I should be going. Mamma Valerius will begin to worry, but, I can't make myself leave my chair or put down this book or pen.

The clock just struck. I think it is midnight.

_January 6, 1889, possibly an hour or two after the last entry_

I am either going mad, have been sent divine inspiration, or have met the representative of the devil!

_January 7, 1889_

Perhaps I _am _going mad.

I must be.

I have heard him again.

The Voice.

It is a Voice of such beauty that I almost wept when I first heard it. When I heard it, I went outside of my dressing room, looking for the person singing, but there was no one. My room is secluded, and there are no occupants in the rooms near mine, they are all empty. I could not find who was singing such a lovely, lovely song.

I couldn't understand the words, but the sounds! Those I could understand. They held to my heart and cradled my soul and caused me to dream.

Only the mad hear such things, don't they, when there is no one there?

I told Mamma Valerius about the Voice, after I had fled my dressing room, certain that there was something the matter with me or that some fiend was playing a trick. Several hours had passed in that time, all spent in listening to the Voice singing. When I arrived home, I blurted out some madness about a disembodied voice and how it had been too beautiful to be real, and she said. . .

Can it be true?

She said, "Of course, Christine, I understand! It is the Angel of Music, the Angel your father promised to send you!"

I stared at her. As a little girl, I had believed in the Angel of Music. I still do, but I had always thought that it would be my father returning to teach me. This Voice did not sound anything at all like my father. It was not like him at all. I said so to Mamma Valerius, and she said, "Well, you can always ask him when you go back to the Opera. Perhaps Heaven has taught him heavenly music."

_Go back to the Opera?_

Of course, when she said that, I thought that I would never come back, but that would have been silly.

"What if it's a demon or something similar?" I asked her. "What if I'm going mad?"

"My dear," she said, giving me one of her famous looks. "You are much too simple to allow the dark one to get a hold on you, and you have a clear and simple mind. There is no chance of either. When you go back, ask. Find out what you can."

I returned this morning, and I found this book where I left it. I opened it, looking at what I had written, and was thinking of writing more when I heard the Voice again.

He was singing.

I began trembling, far too frightened to think, but I told myself all that Mamma Valerius had said, and I got ready for battle. I had my rosary in my pocket, just in case, so I was prepared if it were something evil.

But how could such beauty be evil?

The Voice sang; singing songs of joy and happiness, singing in such a way as to make me feel warm sunlight on my face and the breezes caress my hair. He sang of joy, exultation, and Heaven! He sang and sang and sang, and by the time he stopped, I was weeping.

"Who are you?" I cried, looking around, hoping to see _something_ that would reassure me as to the state of my mind. "_Where _are you? Please, tell me!"

"What do you want me to say?" I heard. It was a voice that was like the first drop of rain in silence, or the first beam of sun after a dark winter. It was simply _audible_ joy.

I remembered what Mamma Valerius had said, about asking him to make certain of who or what he was. . .

"Please," I said, feeling very frightened. "Are you the Angel of Music that my father had promised to send me after he went to Heaven?"

Silence.

"Oh, please, don't go away!" I pleaded. "Please! Could you tell me?"

The Voice sounded exquisitely happy when he answered me. "Fear not, my child. I should have known, Christine, that you would know me for what I am," he said, his words almost like an embrace. "Indeed, I _have_ been sent to you. I am to teach you, to mold you into a true artist, and to make you the greatest singer the world has ever known. It is your destiny and fate to be so."

I began to cry again, for it was either true, or I was going mad, or the devil had me.

The Voice seemed to know the cause of my tears, for he said, "I am not a fiend, and you are not going mad, my child. How may I convince you that I am who I am?"

"I don't know," I choked, trying to calm myself. "Any fiend can accomplish what an angel can, or so the priest says. How can I be sure?"

"No fiend would feel the love I have for you, my child," he said. "For I am to have the fortune of teaching you. Listen to me. Judge for yourself."

And he began to sing, and I listened. I wept again, this time for joy and happiness and the feeling that _it was true!_ I wept and wept and could not stop myself, for I was so happy.

"I am glad your doubts have been laid to rest, my child," he said after ending his song. "All of Heaven is glad. Now, you have worn yourself out with weeping. You need to rest in order to sing. Go home and rest, and return here in the morning, at the hour of eight. We shall have our first lesson then. Sleep well, my child."

And with that, he was gone.

I have stayed only long enough to write it all down, and now, reading it over, I still worry. I could have had hallucinations of an angel, couldn't I? But why did I never see him? Don't you _see _things when you hallucinate? Oh, this is confusing.

It may be confusing, but I plan on coming tomorrow at eight. I wish Papa were here.


	3. Chapter 3

_Feb. 20, 1889_

I have to be living in some sort of dream, and the dream is ruled over by an angel.

My Angel of Music.

I know now that I am not mad. No, he has helped me to lay my fears to rest by telling me about events that were about to happen that only he could know about. Once those events took place, he said, I would understand that he was divinely-sent, and not a beast from hell. I could verify these events for myself, and so, he proved himself to me.

But his voice! As if that were not proof enough!

I come to the Opera every morning at ten minutes to eight, and he is waiting every morning to teach me. We do warm-up exercises together and we will not continue until I have those correct. Then, he will sing the part I am to sing, I sing, and he critiques my work. Often, we will spend the entire lesson on a single phrase, perfecting my tones and pronunciation and breathing, but once I sing the phrase that we have spent so much time on, I feel ready to weep at how beautiful it sounds, and _I_ am the one singing it!

There are times when I am afraid that I'm going to wake up and find this is all a dream, but my angel makes his presence known to me in a thousand little ways, as if to tell me that I am not dreaming.

He secured a spot for me in an afternoon gala, and everyone applauded me, saying that I had to be inspired by an angel in heaven.

On St. Valentine's Day, I received a dozen white roses with a tiny cardboard angel pinned around the stems.

When I return home after a hard night, there will be a cup of warm tea waiting, but I know that Mamma Valerius cannot be the one making it, since she retires early, and her nurse does likewise. Any tea they made for me would be stone-cold by the time I arrived home, so where is this tea coming from? It has to be my angel, for it has a slice of lemon in it rather than milk like the English prefer, since lemon is good for the voice and milk is not.

All these little mundane touches are rather surprising for an angelic being, but he says that since he must watch over a mortal, he must remember a mortal's needs.

Last night, I began to feel rather peculiar and I felt even worse when I got out of bed this morning, but I came for my lesson just like always. As soon as I entered the room and closed the door behind me, he was here, and he asked what the matter was.

"Oh, I just have a little headache," I told him, draping my wrap over a chair. I didn't want to admit to him that my throat was also tickling me, but I should have known better.

"It's more than a headache!" he snapped, sounding angry. "Your throat is hurting you too, isn't it?"

I was too frightened to answer.

"_Isn't it?_"

I nodded, cowering by the sofa. I had never heard him angry before.

His mood changed when he seemed to perceive how frightened I was.

"Foolish child, I will not be angry with you for becoming ill," he said kindly. "Illness is simply a tiny trial that singers must go through and learn to handle wisely, so I will not make you better so we may sing. No, go and inform the managers of your illness, and then return here. I shall teach you how to treat this illness."

I did as he asked of me. The managers were not happy to have to replace me in tonight's performance, but adamantly I refused to sing, even allowing myself to cough a little for their benefit. That seemed to convince them, for the cough sounded truly awful. When I arrived at my dressing-room, I found that somehow it had been re-arranged into a sickroom.

My chaise-lounge had been moved a little closer to the fire, and it had been made up into a bed for me. A small end-table had been placed beside it, and on it stood a lamp, a carafe of water, a cup of tea (with lemon), and what looked like bottles of medicine. My diary, blessed thing, had been placed there as well.

I found a nightgown (not one of mine, but where had it come from?) had been hung up ready for me, so without a word, I slipped behind the screen and changed into it, emerging only once I had wrapped up in a robe and encased my feet in slippers.

"Hello?" I said, emerging from behind the screen. "Angel?"

What if he had left?

He hadn't. "I'm glad to see that the managers gave you no problems," he said, sounding very business-like. "Go ahead and get into bed, and do as I say."

"This is lovely," I said, sliding between the sheets and pulling the covers up around my shoulders. "Oh, I feel better already."

"Oh, child, you can't fool me," he said, sounding vastly amused. "Your head is pounding, isn't it?"

I admitted it was as I draped the robe over the end of the lounge and deposited my slippers on the floor.

"All right, then. Go ahead and drink that tea, and I want you to take two spoonfuls of what is in the blue bottle."

I did as I was told.

"Very good. Now, since you're such a good patient, I shall entertain you."

And entertain me he did! He told me stories, whimsical and amusing folk tales that hailed from lands as far away as Persia and India, and once he had finished those tales, he recited my favorite poems and arias. I wasn't allowed to speak, to save my throat, he said, but he explained everything I wanted to know about. He seemed to know what I wanted to ask about, so I was saved from having to speak.

He stopped, and then directed my attention to the teacup on the table. It had been refilled, and he told me to drink the contents. I did so, and then I heard music. He was playing a violin, and I fell asleep to the sound of it, borne away from waking on a tide of music.

Space

I woke up and feeling better, I decided to write down all that has been occurring. I know it seems incredible, but I can't help but believe it. After all, it's happening to me!

The maid has just come, leaving with me a bouquet of roses. It is not the same as my St. Valentine's bouquet, since why would my Angel send me red roses?

I have just looked at the card, and I feel as if I cannot breathe! It reads:

_I am so sorry to hear of your illness, Little Lotte. I shall visit you in the morning if you like, and I shall be bringing something good for the little invalid. Until tomorrow._

_Raoul de Chagny._

Raoul!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Feb. 21, 1889_

My visit with Raoul has left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, a singer should give everything over to her art, but on the other hand…feeling one's heart jump like that…

I'm not making sense.

Raoul and I were childhood friends. We met when Papa and I were wandering around in Bretagne, and the wind blew my scarf into the sea. Raoul, silly boy, jumped into the water and got it for me, and emerged soaking wet. Oh, his aunt (whom he was visiting at the time) was not pleased, but that was the beginning of our friendship. We would tell stories to one another, watch for spirits at night and terrify ourselves by telling the other that we saw them, and Raoul began to take violin lessons from Papa. That summer was the best time we ever had. I saw him again when I was fifteen, when he came to visit us, but I didn't seem him again until today.

He came, as he said he would, with a basket of fruit and more flowers. He was as handsome as always, and he still had the same smile. It turns out he has been attending the opera in his brother's box, and he's seen me on stage.

"I am so glad to see you, Little Lotte, but I'm very sorry you're ill," he said, handing me the flowers. "Shouldn't you be at home instead of here in the Opera?"

"Oh, I'm being taken very good care of here," I said, eager to lay his fears at rest. He would never have believed me if I had told him _who_ had been taking care of me! Imagine, an angel bringing chicken soup!

Raoul and I chatted about commonplace things for a while, but suddenly he changed topics. He began to tell me how glad he was to see me, how he had never forgotten me, and how he had been so pleased to find me again.

_Dear God!_ I thought. _This is more than just friendliness!_

It didn't end well. Feeling as if agreeing to keep company with Raoul was the wrong thing to do, I began to laugh at him and make little of his feelings. Oh, his face! I crushed him, and I felt as if I were the one being crushed! I agreed that yes, it was nice to see him again, and of course I had never forgotten my old playfellow, and weren't the games we used to play as children so amusing to think back on? Of course, when we had played at being sweethearts, that was all it had been, just a game.

I knew I had hurt his feelings. His eyes darkened, and he wouldn't look at me directly after that. When he left, it was with the understanding that we would see one another again, perhaps over a friendly supper with Mamma Valerius as a chaperone, where we could talk and be companions once more. I could tell that that was not what he wanted, but what else could I do? Raoul is a viscount, and I am an opera singer. There could never be anything more between us than friendship, and even that would be frowned upon without our long acquaintance behind us. People tolerate friendship if you were childhood friends, but two adults becoming friends is seen to be a romantic affair.

Oh, bother people!

_Feb. 22, 1889_

I think the Angel and I have quarreled, but we've also made up. I think.

After I wrote the last of my previous entry, I started to cry. I know why I cried, but I could never confess it, not even to this book. Seeing it in writing would make it too real, and in truth, it frightens me a little. I...I've never felt this way before.

The Angel came, and, seeing me in tears, asked me what was wrong. I poured out my feelings to him: how unhappy I was about Raoul, how I cared for my old playmate but had to discourage our association because everyone would assume we were lovers, and how miserable I was about the whole situation. After all, as children we had been allowed to play together without anyone thinking twice about it, but now that we were adults we could no longer be playmates.

"It isn't fair!" I finished in a wail. "He's always been my best, best friend, and now we can't see one another without people assuming the worst of us! And all I want to do is see him now, and I've had to drive him away!"

"Ah," the Angel said, sounding sympathetic. "This young man...are you sure he is only an old playmate?"

This question surprised me. "Of course!" I said, anxious to assure him, although I did not know why. I mean, why should I have hidden my feelings from him like that?

"Are you absolutely certain?" he continued. "You see, Christine, you must know your own heart. If you bestow your heart on an earthly love, then the only thing I will be able to do will be to go back to Heaven. You cannot have place in your heart for both divine music and a mortal man."

"He is only an old friend!" I protested. "That is all! Of course I care for him, but...well, he is only a friend, nothing more!" I was frantic to assure the Angel that this was so. Then, something else burst out of me. "Besides, even if I did care for him, there would be no chance of a match! He is a viscount!"

Did the Angel snarl at that? I can't be sure. Anyway, what he said next left me feeling as if he had taken my heart and torn it in two.

"Very well, Christine. It is clear you _don't _know how you feel. I shall give you three days to come to a decision. You may either love your mortal man, or you may love music. You cannot do both!"

And with that, he was gone.

If I had thought I had cried before, it was nothing to what I did then. I cried until I was half-senseless, and I have no idea what happened after that. I just remember feeling as if I were freezing and then burning by turns. My throat blazed with fire, and my head ached abominably. I was so afraid that the Angel had seen what my true feelings were and had convinced God to send me to Hell! I screamed, terrified that at any moment imps and demons would come to torment me, and when I opened my mouth again, I was certain I had seen flames coming from it! I kept screaming, despite the flames, and then I heard something that managed to drown my screams.

_Kyrie, kyrie eleison. . .  
Kyrie, kyrie eleison. . .  
Christe eleison!_

It was my Angel come to rescue me! I wept, happier than I can ever remember being. He kept singing, and all I could do was lie still and listen as Heaven's music intoxicated me.

_Gloria in excelsis Deo!  
Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis!  
Laudamus te!  
Benedicimus te!  
Adoramus te!  
Glorificamus te!  
Gratiam agimus tibi propter magnum gloriam tuam!_

I knew what the words meant, as any Catholic would. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace toward men of good will. We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we glorify Thee. We give Thee thanks for Thy great glory, O Lord God.

The Angel was singing part of the Mass.

Suddenly, everything was quiet, and my fears were gone. I felt a wonderful coolness laid on my forehead, and then the great warmth of the Angel's voice.

"Oh, child, I see now that you knew your heart after all. You have chosen Heaven's music, and I am glad. All of Heaven sings in joy."

I felt as if I were a part of that joy, and I wept again, this time from sheer ecstasy. Amazingly, I felt a hand take hold of mine, but it was too dark for me to see anything since the lamps had gone out. The lamps remained out, but I could actually hear him in the room with me. Before, he'd only been a voice, but now, I could hear him moving about. When I asked what made the rustling noise I was hearing, he said that it was only the sound his wings made as he moved.

Imagine! I've heard angel's wings!

When I asked why it was so dark, he said it was because he had banished the light so I would not be blinded by his heavenly light. His light in addition to regular light would ensure the end of my eyes. I understood this, and thanked him for being so kind to me and coming so close. He said that it was the least he could do for me since I had been so faithful.

After that, I was too sleepy to notice much. I remember being given something to drink and being covered with blankets. When I woke up this morning, the light was back, and everything was as it had been, except for the single white rose sitting on my vanity. It is gorgeous and covered with dew, as if it had been cut from the bush only moments ago.

So far, that's been all that's happened today. My fever is gone, and I am feeling better, and tomorrow, if the Angel permits it, I may go home to Mamma Valerius. What a strange time I've had, but I have never been happier since Papa died.


	5. Chapter 5

_Feb. 28, 1889_

What a lot of bother! Carlotta is screeching out on stage because her maid forgot her favorite wrap. Everyone is backing away from her, terrified that she'll turn on them next. Needless to say, I've come to take refuge in my dressing room.

_March 1, 1889_

More bother, more screeching. She received a box of spoiled fish last night! It was all done up in a box that usually holds the most expensive chocolate in Paris, but instead of chocolate, it was nothing but fish! There was also a note: "To cover up the stink of your singing."

Who could have done that? More importantly, who would have _dared_?

_March 12, 1889_

Gala performance tonight, and I am so exhausted I can hardly hold my pen. The Angel told me before the performance that I was to sing in Carlotta's place. Before I had a chance to become nervous, he was telling me that I could now go and give some of Heaven's music to man.

I think I must have done everything right, because I remember people applauding, but I must have fainted after that. I woke up in my dressing room, and the Opera doctor was there, as well as our managers, but what a jump my heart gave when I saw Raoul there as well! I pretended not to recognize him, and the hurt look on his face made me want to cry. I was so glad when the doctor told him that I must still be a little out of my senses.

That was the first time in my life I was glad to be thought senseless!

They went away after I assured them I would be fine. I sat for a few moments, gathering my breath, and then I heard the Angel come. I could tell that he was very, very happy.

"Ah, my child, you have done wonderfully! The angels wept tonight."

I couldn't help smiling at that. I'd never had anyone praise my singing quite like that before.

"Did they truly?" I asked, wanting to know.

"Of course they did," he assured me. "How could they not? Such beauty is rarely conceived, much less heard by anyone. You were sheer perfection."

I was so happy I cried, and I heard him chuckle. "Ah, now, don't cry! You can't sing with a throat all closed from crying."

"I can't help it," I sobbed. "I'm just very happy!"

He chuckled again. "I am glad you are so."

What he said next surprised me a little.

"I am more than glad. Christine, you must love me!"

I had never heard him refer to himself when it came to love. The love of Heaven, certainly, and the love of music; but himself, specifically? Never. I realized he could only mean one thing: a spark of love that comes between two people when they are inspired by Heaven.

"How could I not?" I answered. "Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead."

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, and I thank you for it. Until tomorrow, my dear one."

With that, he was gone. I am still sitting here, writing this, but I know I am not in the building alone. Somewhere, someone is playing such a joyous-sounding song on an organ. It does not sound like the Opera's organ, though. Where can it be coming from?

_March 14, 1889_

Carlotta has come back to the Opera, and everyone has forgotten about the gala. I'm sure I must not let pride or anger overtake me, but does no one remember how beautiful it was? Am I the only one?

_March 15, 1889_

I am so frightened that I am shaking. We were in the middle of Faust, and Carlotta was singing the part of Margeurite. I was in the chorus, and she was interrupted by an awful sound I would not wish on anyone! One moment she was singing, and the next, she was croaking like a toad!

Then there was a loud, terrible voice that made the chandelier tremble.

"_She's singing tonight to bring down the chandelier!"_

And down it came.

After that, there was nothing but screaming and running. I saw Raoul in his brother's box, and I knew he was safe, but what about the Angel?

So, I've run here to my dressing room, and I am waiting for the Angel to come. Oh, thank You, Merciful God! He's here!

_March 16 or 17(not sure which), 1889 (I hope. I feel as if I've aged 100 years)_

How do I write this, much less describe it?

Even more, how do I _start_?

Perhaps I ought to tell events as they happened?

He's out there now, playing on the organ (it was the organ I heard the other night. . .). What is that music? I've no idea. Oh, dear, now it's quiet.

He's started up again.

Quiet.

Help.

Oh, there it goes again. He must be composing and jotting down as he goes.

This is too confusing! Calm down, Christine! How did it start? It started with the Angel coming to me. He started to sing…and the mirror in front of me…it went somewhere (don't know where) and the next thing I knew I was in a dark tunnel, and the music that had led me there was gone.

I screamed, of course. I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. Then, I felt…something…take hold of my hand, a very cold and bony something. I screamed, terrified, but another cold and bony something clamped itself over my mouth.

I fainted, I think, and came to a moment later. He was pouring water on my forehead. That is, a very thin and tall person dressed all in black was pouring the water. I didn't know who it was, so stupidly I said, "Who are you? Where is the Voice?"

He only sighed, and then I hea--

Quiet.

Heard a little neigh. It was Cesar, the white horse from _Le Prophete_ that had disappeared some time ago. The man in black lifted me up onto the horse's back and climbed up behind me, holding me up in the saddle. My mind was clear, but I couldn't really move or speak or even gather enough strength to scream, let alone run away.

How long did that ride last? I've no idea. At the end of it, there was a lake all lit with blue light, and there was a tiny wharf with a boat tied to it. As he lifted me down from the saddle I began to feel afraid, and he saw or sensed it, so he sent Cesar away so I wouldn't try to leave on him. I don't know where he went to, but I could hear his hoofbeats moving away. I was placed in the boat, and the man rowed us across the lake so quickly that we had reached the other side before I could think to jump out and swim for shore. He picked me up again, and before I could scream I wa—

Quiet.

What's he doing now?

Why did it sound as if a shelf of crockery has just shattered?

I don't want to know. I _don't_.

Quiet again.

Wonderful. Now I've been deafened. It sounds like Bach. If he keeps pounding the organ like that, he'll blow out the bellows.

Quiet again. What did he say? I don't think I was meant to hear that.

Or that.

Or that.

Where was I? He's moved to the piano, thank goodness. Before I could scream I was blinded by light.

Where was the light coming from?

Or that.

Several gas lamps were as bright as they could go, and I was sitting in a chair in the middle of a completely ordinary parlor. There was furniture, and books, and rugs and ornaments. There were even baskets of flowers that one could buy at any flower stall in Paris. I could almost have said what stall they had come from and how much they had cost. Ridiculous, I know. Here I was at the very bottom of all the cellars of the Paris Opera, and I was sitting in a perfectly ordinary sitting room!

Preposterous.

But, it was true. I could feel the chair underneath me, I could feel my feet on the rug, and I could smell the flowers and feel the warmth of the stove.

That was when he spoke. He said, "Do not be afraid, Christine, you are in no danger."

It was the Voice! It was my Angel! My Angel was...a man! I started to cry, and I heard him say, "Yes, it is true, Christine. I am not a ghost or an angel. I am Erik!"

So, my Angel had a name.

I demanded to be let go immediately, I told him I could only despise him if he did not take me back, and (I don't think I've mentioned this) that he remove his mask if it covered the face of an honest man.

You see, he wears a mask. A black silk one, most of the time, but other times he will wear a white one. The white one reminds me too much of a skull, but I do not say so. Perhaps that's what he intends to do with it? Frighten people?

He did not remove his mask, so I lunged forward, trying to snatch it away, but he grabbed my wrists and pushed me back into my chair. I am in no danger, he said, as long as I do not touch the mask. I felt that I could live with that, so I let it alone. I demanded to be taken back, and to my great surprise, he offered to take me, except he sang... You see, he was still my Angel, and I found his singing as wonderful as it ever was. I fell asleep, listening to his music, and I woke up this morning (or was it this afternoon?) in this room. It is a completely ordinary room, such as the drawing room, and it is furnished with Louis-Phillippe furniture. It is actually quite pretty and even feminine, in an odd way. Did he decorate it for me, or was it always this way? I've no idea. There is a good deal of crocheting everywhere, from the antimacassars on the furniture to the edged rug to the covers on the bed. Perhaps he bought all of it? I don't know.

Anyway, back to when I woke up. The only door I could find led into a very nice bathroom (with a water closet and hot and cold running water). When I came back out, there was a note waiting for me on the dresser.

_My Dear Christine,_ it read. _You need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better or more respectful friend in the world than I. You are alone, at present, in this home which is yours. I have gone out shopping to fetch all the effects you may need._

_Erik_

I can't say what happened after that. I do know that I panicked. Erik found me on the floor (having entered by a door I had not seen earlier, and no wonder! It's disguised as a bookshelf!), laughing and crying over myself at the same time. Quickly he set the packages down and came to my side, where I'm afraid I heaped abuse on him, crying and snapping like a little dog. I called him the worst of villains and shouted that only rogues wore masks.

He laughed! He said that he was certainly not a rogue, and that I was only overwrought, so he would not hold my words against me. After that, he scolded me and said that it was a shame I had not dressed by that time of day. (I was still dressed from the night before, but I was in terrible disarray: my hair and my clothes were a mess.) It was two o'clock in the afternoon, he said, as he wound my watch for me. He would give me a half hour to get ready, and would I come to the dining room, since lunch was waiting for us?

I slammed the door in his face and neatened myself and redid my hair, but curiosity got the better of me. Before I went out, I opened each and every package that was lying on the bed.

He must have beggared himself to buy those clothes! Gowns from the House of Worth! Seven of them! All silk and velvet and I don't know what else! Expensive underthings and shoes and stockings and gloves and even hats! Everything has come from the most expensive stores in Paris! And the books! They were from Galignani's! And the jewels! Any woman in Paris recognizes a Cartier box when she sees one! There were even perfumes, soaps, and bath salts from Guerlain's!

I felt quite giddy after all that. I am sure that not even a queen would be so well-dressed!

I did not put on anything that he had bought me. I didn't quite dare. It was worth more than the entire Opera! Instead, I went out in what I had on. I could see a hopeful look in his eyes as I came out, but it left as soon as he saw what I was wearing. Oh, well. I couldn't bring myself to wear those clothes. I would certainly ruin them: I'm always catching my gowns on something or splashing something on them. I spend more on having them cleaned and repaired than actually having them made.

Lunch was odd: prawns and chicken, as well as roasted vegetables and Tokay wine. I was only able to swallow a few mouthfuls, and Erik did not eat at all. No, he watched me eat, and that did nothing for my nerves. I felt as if his heart were beating in time with my chewing!

After I had finished eating, he took me on a tour of the house. The parlor is also a music room since it has a piano set up in the corner. Then he showed me his bedroom, and it was a shock.

He'd led me into a funeral parlor!

No, I'm exaggerating. But it did look like it. It did, really. There were black hangings with a white score of _Dies Irae_ on them, the "Day of Wrath." On the far wall was an immense organ with sheet music spread all over the stand. And, lying under a canopy, there was a handsome black coffin lined with silk.

I almost ran at that sight. It was a close thing, I can tell you. He said that that is where he sleeps.

I was very anxious to get him to stop talking about the coffin and how we have to get used to everything in life, even eternity. I was ready to lose my mind, so I asked him to play me something from the work that was on the organ music stand.

That was the wrong thing to say. He became very somber and said that he would play me Mozart, which would make me weep, but his "Don Juan" burns with fire that is not from Heaven. I did not know what to think as he sat down at the piano in the parlor and began to play, but I remember what came next.

I wanted to see his face.

Why did I do it? I'll never forget that sight! Never!

I crept up behind him, and I yanked the mask off of his face. Howling, he faced me, roaring something about curious women and did I think him handsome? Was he comely? Why was I crying? Did I think his face was a mask? (He tried to help me pull it off, but it was no mask: it was his true face.)

That was when he started to cry. He sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands and moaned like a dying thing.

"Why?" he cried. "Why, Christine? Oh, mad Christine, who wanted to see me! If you'd thought I was handsome, you would have come back, but now you never will! Why, oh, why couldn't you be content to hear me?"

He dragged himself into his room, and he's been there ever since. Apparently, there's also a piano somewhere in his room.

Things can't go on like this, but what can I do?

It's quiet again.

No, he's started playing again.

Perhaps he knew this would happen. I found this on the little writing desk in my room. Apparently, he was the one behind it when I found it in my dressing room. Hmm. Well, he knew I would need to write sometime. Perhaps that's why he's brought it here.

What to do? He's crying again.

I've thought of something, but am I brave enough?

I shall have to.

Help.

_An hour or so later. I think._

I've done it, and I shall surely go to Hell for it.

I lied to him.

I went to his room, and I apologized for taking his mask, but I also said that if he ever saw me tremble again, it would be because I was thinking of the splendor of his genius!

At those words, he rose from his organ bench and flung himself at my feet, and a moment later he was sobbing and kissing the hem of my dress in supplication...he did not see that I had closed my eyes.

He is happy again, he pays me endless little attentions, and he is my slave in all matters. Every time I see his eyes, I see them burn with love.

Oh, dear God, what have I _done_?


	6. Chapter 6

I am living in a dream

_March 31, 1889_

I am living in a dream.

It's true. Every waking moment I have is a dream, and it is watched over by an earthly angel that is no longer afraid of me.

For some months before this, I kept up a pleasant fiction—I was an angel, the Angel of Music, for Christine Daae.

Christine!

What can I write about Christine that would not be a gross understatement? How can any mortal pen words fitting to such a being? I can tell now that I am the worst kind of idolater, since I have found an idol in _her._ I live, move, and have my being in Christine. When I rise in the morning I can think of nothing else but how to please her, and when I go to sleep at night I think of the same thing.

The pleasant fiction—I had heard her speak of the Angel of Music to herself, and since she was so unhappy, I wondered why I couldn't be the Angel of Music for her as easily as I was the Opera Ghost for the rest of the Opera staff. I was certain that she would feel better and have more confidence in herself. You see, she needed a friend badly, and an angelic one would have given her that much more confidence. A heavenly friend--! You see, when one feels backed by Heaven, then one feels completely confident.

For what seemed a short eternity—but what a sweet eternity!—I was the Voice that filled her dressing room with sound and instructed her, helping her to turn her voice into a heavenly instrument that would bring Paris to tears with joy. I was her Angel that cared for her while she was ill and reassured her when she doubted herself. I was the Angel that showered her with small attentions that let her know she was favored by Heaven.

I was also the Angel that tormented her and twisted her heart so that he could be sure of her complete and utter devotion.

What made me do it? I think she has an admirer in the young Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. It turns out that they knew one another and were playmates as children. Her father taught young Raoul the violin, and they held picnics up in the attic of her father's house when it rained and recounted the tales of Bretagne to one another. She swore that her attachment to him was only that of an old friend and nothing else, but I doubted it.

I doubted _her_!

Looking back, I wonder how I could have doubted her. I used my voice to hypnotize her, to make her think that she had gone to Hell, and when she called out for _me_ and not for Raoul to save her, I knew that she trusted and cared for me beyond her old friend.

She trusted her Angel more than she trusted Raoul to help her!

Still, foolishness asserted itself. I was not content to be _only_ her Angel; I wanted to be a _person_ to her. I wanted her to know me as I truly was, instead of as her Angel.

Madness!

Still, the other night, I embarrassed Carlotta off the stage and allowed those two fools who claim to be managers to see how very capable of mayhem I am. I caused the chandelier to fall into the house, and Christine rushed to her dressing room. I moved through the secret passages quickly, and looking through the mirror, I found her collapsed by the chaise lounge in her dressing room, weeping and entreating me to come. I sang to let her know I was there, and then I committed the most heinous act I've ever done.

I stole her from her world and brought her into mine. My world is one of darkness, of night and sad dreams. Her world is one of daylight and joy. What business had I to bring her _here_, of all places? If I wanted to be with her, why could I not have taken her somewhere we could be alone and outside in the sunlight? In the country or by the sea would have been appropriate, yet I brought her here. I think part of my motives to bring her here was fear. It has been so long since I've seen the sunlight and walked outside that I must look truly awful in the day. What would she think if she saw me in the daylight?

Gaslight—she's seen me in the gaslight, and that is bad enough!

A little chloroform sent her into dreams and allowed me to carry her here, and I have to wonder what she thought of that journey. It must have been fantastic and beyond belief, and her imagination must have conjured up quite a few incredible explanations for what she was seeing and hearing. Just as the chloroform wore off we arrived, and she was amazed at the house and the fact that it was all real.

Also, she wept. She wept to learn that I was not an Angel after all, but was only a man named Erik. I had broken her heart because I wished to love her as a man and not an Angel. I deserve a thousand lifetimes in Purgatory for doing that to her. She was furious with me after a few moments, and she demanded to see my face, but I warned her never to touch my mask. She demanded her freedom, and I offered it, but I began to sing instead. I sang her to sleep and put her to rest in the spare bedroom, and I spent the night in some kind of exultant joy. I could hardly close my eyes for happiness! Christine was asleep in the next room. My Angel was dreaming under my roof!

Eventually, however, I did manage to fall asleep. I woke with the lark (although there are none here, five stories underground) and left her a note before I went shopping. She had only the clothes on her back, and I had not thought to pack a bag for her! I bought her the best I could obtain (which is considerable) from Worth's, Galignani's, Cartier, and Guerlain's. I brought back everything and found her in a state of mild hysterics since she had been unable to find a way out of her room. While she yelped and worried at me and called me every roguish name in the book, I piled the packages on the bed and wound her watch for her, telling her that she should have finished dressing since it was two in the afternoon.

The _look_ she gave me! It was priceless, hilarious, and positively adorable all at once, despite the fact that she looked like she wanted to hit me over the head with her dressing table lamp. She slammed the door in my face when I left, and I went to prepare lunch while she got ready. Once we sat down I found I had no appetite, and I was content to see her eat. I still don't know if she liked my cooking, but she didn't make any faces, so it must have been all right. After lunch I showed her around the house and we went to the parlor to sing.

It was then she pulled off my mask.

All I remember was a red haze filling my vision, and my throat hurting from yelling. When I had stopped yelling I found I was crying, and I crept into my room, ashamed that she had seen me, and that I had behaved in such a manner. A short while later she entered my room, telling me that she was not afraid of me and that I could show her my face without fear.

Since then, I have been living in a dream. For the past two weeks I have had every day with my Angel in my home, and we are the best of companions. We spend our time talking, walking, boating about on the lake, playing games (checkers, cards, and I've taught her chess), or reading to one another. Often I tell her stories, and she watches me with a rapt fascination that sometimes makes me lose my place. If she looked at me with the same expression in her eyes and asked me to cut off my hand, then I would be helpless to do anything else.

Tonight I feel as if I am the happiest man alive.


End file.
